


When the Cat's Away

by candygramme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candygramme/pseuds/candygramme
Summary: A glitch allows Crowley and Meg escape The Empty, so of course they go and mess with the Winchester Brothers.  What else would they do?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 149
Collections: 2020 Supernatural & CWRPF Holiday Exchange





	When the Cat's Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smalltrolven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smalltrolven/gifts).



> This fic is a Christmas gift for Smalltrolven. I got 2 out of 3 of your wishes into there.
> 
> Meg and Crowley outsider POV on Sam/Dean  
> Crowley & Meg return in season 15 in an unexpected manner
> 
> I do hope you approve.

Nobody was ever sure why it happened, but happen it did. The Entity, the being that had guarded The Empty since the start of eternity, one day decided that it had had enough.

There had been a lot of noise in recent times, and it’d been sleeping, not even dreaming, unchallenged by events it considered beneath it. Then the upstart Death had appeared and taken what belonged to it. That hadn’t pleased it at all. What’s dead should stay dead. It might have been that it wanted to teach the new, unfamiliar Death a lesson. That would have been funny in any language, even Enochian.

But then, as if the address had been given out on Angel Radio or something, people, and by people I mean _humans,_ had begun to take its property willy-nilly, casting spells and basically trying to treat The Empty as if it were Dropbox, or a thumb drive, rather than the final solution. So, as previously stated, it had left the building, so to speak. 

For a minute, an hour, maybe a millennium, nothing changed, but then, gradually, the occupants began to wake up.

The first to come to was the original Death, and being the phlegmatic type, he merely yawned, stretched, and made his way through the ether to a little brasserie in the 20th Arrondisement called Joséphine Chez Dumonet, where he proceeded to order paté de foie gras and toast as he gazed appreciatively at the teeming Parisian night life. He could tell that reaping was carrying on nicely without him and decided to take a vacation for once in his very long life.

Back in The Empty, one by one, other beings awoke and began to look around. Some merely squealed in horror when they saw how the world had changed, but one or two decided to make themselves scarce before anyone came and caught them.

So it came to pass that a pair of demons who had once been sworn enemies found themselves working together to find a way back to Earth, and this is where our story really begins.

~(0)~

“Bloody hell, it’s you!” Crowley was a little disheveled, his smart black suit somewhat dusty and stained from his demise in his Alternate Earth encounter with Lucifer, but his words were as acerbic as ever as he surveyed the slender brunette who was racing for the next wormhole alongside of him.

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Meg. “Of all the gin joints in all the world, yada yada! Hurry up. It’s getting smaller.”

She arrived at the rapidly shrinking opening in time to hurl herself bodily through it and then turned back to watch as Crowley followed her. It was going to be touch and go. He seemed to be getting caught on the edges by his fancy overcoat. It would be funny, she thought, if he were cut in half by a rapidly closing wormhole. For a brief moment, she enjoyed the sight of the king of the crossroads floundering like a turtle that had fallen on its back as he tried to escape the opening that was growing smaller every second. Then she sighed, grabbed hold of him by the coat and put her not inconsiderable strength to the task of hauling him free.

Landing nose first onto the floor of wherever they were, (and she had no idea where the hell that might be), Crowley lay kicking for a moment before finally pushing himself up to standing. His once beautiful overcoat was now in tatters, shreds of it still protruding from the place where the wormhole had been just a few moments before. 

“Bloody marvelous!” he said, surveying the tatters.

Shrugging his shoulders, he dropped the remains to the ground and turned to study his companion.

“Not that I’m not grateful, you understand,” he said, shaking his head. “But why did you decide to help me just then.”

“Call me Ms. Altruistic,” she smirked. “It just seemed like a good opportunity to store up treasure in heaven, as it were. We’re not out of the woods yet, and two heads are better than one.”

It took Crowley a moment to think about that before he raised his eyebrows and nodded to acknowledge her reasoning. “Fair enough,” he said. “Now, where are we?”

The two of them looked around. The place they were in appeared to be some kind of gallery, a long, white corridor with pictures on the wall at regular intervals. Meg frowned a little. “Sorry, but Google Maps just doesn’t seem to be showing up right now.”

Ignoring her, Crowley made his way over to one of the pictures that hung close by and stood gazing at it with his lips pursed as he considered it. After a while, he moved off to another one, and another after that. Meg watched him for a few minutes but realized that he wasn’t actually waiting for her and hurried after him.

“What are you doing?” she asked. He gave her a supercilious smile that made her want to poke him in the eye, and gestured grandly at the picture he was currently examining.

“I don’t think that these pictures have been randomly placed,” he said, indicating the one in front of him. “They seem to be the most recent places I visited before I died.”

“I think I’d have stayed out of that one,” remarked Meg, gazing in fascination at the wrecked landscape of the alternate earth where Crowley had met his doom.

“You’re not wrong.”Crowley shuddered. “Serves me bloody well right. Take it from me, if you do something altruistic for someone, you’ll get shafted. It’s a bloody cosmic rule.” There was a pause, and then he smiled a Crowley smile. “Course, it doesn’t seem to have worked out too badly. Lucifer’s out of the picture right now, and here I am, free and clear, so I can’t complain. Too bad about the overcoat, but I’ll chalk that up to the fortunes of war.”

“Well, go you!” Meg sauntered past him and surveyed yet another vista. “Where’s this one?” she asked him. 

Moving up behind her to study it, Crowley pursed his lips. “That, my dear, is the map room of the Men of Letters Bunker located in Lebanon, Kansas, home to those great hairy heaps of flannel, the Winchesters.” He grinned. “I think we should go there, don’t you?”

“I’d have thought that would be the very last place you’d want to be,” responded Meg, looking at the wrought iron and fancy scroll-work of the balcony there. “This is where they live? I thought they lived in the car.”

“They moved up in the world. Never underestimate the King of Hell, darling. The brothers Winchester owe me. After all, I did give my life for them.” He reached up to tap on the surface of the picture, nodding when he felt it dissolve beneath his touch. “Let’s pay the Hardy boys a little visit, shall we?”

Feeling a little out of her depths, Meg considered his suggestion and then nodded. “Sure, if you want, but why? What are you thinking of doing to them?”

“For shame!” Crowley smirked. “People are always expecting the worst of me, and while that’s usually true, I do occasionally go against nature.” As he spoke he was stretching the edges of the picture, which was becoming a window rather than a mere 2 dimensional image. “Well, come on then. Hop to it! Oh, and make sure you stay invisible to them.” 

She came a little closer to the window but hesitated, distrustful of the demon beside her. “How do I know I can trust you?” she asked, eying the room below. 

“What could you possibly think I would do to you?” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Just hop in if you’re coming. Patience is not one of my virtues. Well, quite frankly, I haven’t got any virtues, but I’m pretty sure that if I did, patience would not be one of them. If you’re deciding not to join me, then I’ll see you later, ta ta!”

The window was now almost a door, and the ex King of Hell had one foot inside by the time Meg decided to go with him, stepping through in a way that jostled him to one side and made him give an exasperated sigh.

“Seriously?”

She quirked an eyebrow at him and smiled sweetly. “You might want to watch your waistline a little. There wasn’t really enough room for both of us.”

His eyes opened wide, and for a moment, red showed in them. “Listen to me, you insignificant little maggot. I may not be the King of Hell right now, but I’ve still got enough juice to squash you like the bug you are.”

“Touchy, aren’t we?” she murmured, stepping away a little from Crowley, just to be on the safe side. He was obviously still angry and seemed about to follow her, when there was a sound to their right and the door to the street opened. “Okay, okay. Invisible, right.”

Nodding absently, Crowley waved his hand, and the aperture through which they’d come closed behind him, and not a moment too soon. As they stepped back into the corner of the balcony, Sam Winchester appeared, calling out for his brother to bring the beer. He was manhandling several bags of groceries, and as Meg watched him, he trotted down the staircase with them. She shook her head. 

“I think I forgot just how big he is,” she said.

“Yeah. Our Moose is the economy size all right,” agreed Crowley as Dean appeared in the doorway toting several cases of the local brew. He followed after his brother, calling out loudly that he’d got the important stuff. 

“I wouldn’t throw him back again, either,” said Meg, her eyes fixed on Dean’s back as he headed through the room toward the kitchen.  
“Hell’s bells,” said Crowley. “They bicker like an old married couple.”

“Yeah. You’d think that they’d have paired up with a couple of women by now, wouldn’t you? I mean, how old are they?” Meg leaned against the wall, watching the two men perform a complicated dance as they put their groceries away.

“I suppose so,” said Crowley. “It’s not as if they don’t bathe or insist on wearing polyester all the time. You’d think that at least one of them would’ve gotten hitched by now.” He thought for a while. “Of course, Moose does sweat rather a lot, and they both fart horribly at the least opportunity...”

“I don’t know about their habits, but I can tell you that when I was Sam for a while, he seemed to be much more interested in his brother than in women.” Meg cast her mind back to the time when she’d possessed Sam temporarily. “I had him thinking about raping Jo, but the silly bastard didn’t seem to be able to get it up.” She chuckled. “I was trying to get him to kill Dean, but that didn’t work either. He diverted the gun so it got him in the shoulder instead, more’s the pity.”

“Inside knowledge, so to speak,” nodded Crowley, thoughtfully. “Well, isn’t that interesting?” He frowned as he began to think back through his acquaintance with the brothers Winchester. I was in Sam for a short while, but I was busy fighting his demons, so I didn’t get much time for reconnoitering. You could be right though.” He smiled. “Thinking about it, when Dean was demonic for a while, he was definitely focused on little brother. I remember that.” Watching the brothers, who had now put away all the groceries and were enjoying one of the beers while bickering good naturedly about what Dean was preparing for dinner.

“I think they look like they’re perfectly in sync with each other. We should keep on watching them to find out if they’re already sleeping together,” said Meg, laughing softly. “And if they aren’t, then we need to get them to start sleeping together. That would be a good, demonic thing to do, right?”

“It would certainly settle a question I've asked myself from time to time.” Crowley chuckled. “All right then. Keep an eye on them here. I’m going to look around and see what’s new and exciting.” With that, he winked out before she could say another word.

All in all, Meg wasn’t unhappy with the way things had gone. She’d helped Crowley, which on the surface of it betrayed a lack of judgment that might well come back to bite her, but there were other factors that might well benefit her. Sure, she was gambling, but what was eternity without a bet or two?

She continued to watch the Winchesters, noting the way they touched each other as they passed — a hand on the shoulder here, a quick slap on the back there, and once, a pause while Dean wiped something invisible to her off Sam’s cheek.

 _If they’re not doing it yet, there’s something wrong with them,_ she thought, nodding to herself. 

By the time Crowley returned from poking around the bunker, the brothers had made and eaten their supper and were lounging in the board room, drinking single malt and kicking back with their feet on the table.

“They still have their own rooms,” reported Crowley.

“Yeah, but do they stay in them?” asked Meg with a smirk. “They do touch each other an awful lot. Not quite what you’d call groping, but pretty close.”

“Good. I think that’s a good start. Don’t you?” Crowley had obviously put a lot of thought into this while he’d been roaming around the bunker. “It would be good to make sure that they actually aren’t already sleeping together, but meanwhile I think we should spread a few pheromones around. What do you think?”

“I don’t suppose it could hurt.” For a moment, Meg peered at the Winchesters who had started to make sleepy noises. “Looks like Dean is on his way to bed. Sam’s still deep in his book.”

“Yeah, Moose was always a night owl. When his soul was still down in Hell he didn’t sleep at all.” Crowley looked thoughtful. “I kind of liked him then. He’d have made an excellent demon in those days. Too bad, really.” He shook himself and cleared his throat. “Oh well. No use crying over spilled milk. Okay. Let’s see. Pheromones... hmmm.” With that, he winked out once more, reappearing a few minutes later with a battered amphora etched with curious markings that Meg couldn’t quite focus on.

As she was about to ask what he’d brought, Sam gave a sigh and closed his laptop, rising to his feet. “Table my question,” she said. “Let’s see where he goes.”

Following Sam down the corridor, the two demons expected him to take the left and make for Dean’s room, and indeed he did, but he merely tapped on the door and called out goodnight before heading back along the passage way to another room which proved to be his own.

“Cool,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Okay. Give them a few minutes to get to sleep and then we can set the scene. Are you going to enlighten me about what’s in the jug?”

“Ah, yes.” Crowley gestured at the inscription on the clay pot in his arms. “It’s a potion my mother had stored away. I believe it was supposed to be created by Aphrodite, but you know witches and their ridiculous gobbledegook. She reckoned it works, though, so I figure we should try it on Moose and Squirrel here. She was going to try it on George Clooney for herself, but somehow she never managed to get close enough to put it into his beer.” He snickered. “A dash of this in their Wheaties should prove interesting, don’t you think?”

“Works for me,” murmured Meg as she booted up Sam’s laptop. “Now where was that video that the Becky girl posted? Ah, yes...”

“Do you suppose that will work?” Crowley moved behind her to look over her shoulder and gasped and gasped. “Well, I never! Who knew he was proportionate?”

~ (0) ~

As usual Sam was the first to emerge from his room the next morning. He was wearing his sweats, first stretching and yawning, then fumbling into his runners, discarded under the table the night before. He made his way into the kitchen to pour himself a large glass of water and then set the coffee machine off doing its thing. Then he headed up the stairs and out of the door, running, his long, loping strides eating up the ground beneath him as he disappeared around the bend in the road and out of sight.

The two demons looked at each other, lightbulbs flashing behind their eyes as they suddenly came to the same conclusion.

“The coffee,” they said in unison, and then made haste back to the kitchen where the drip feed machine Dean had purchased to replace the gigantic percolator was just beginning to send the first little hissing droplets through the grounds and into the carafe.

“Pretty sure they both drink coffee,” said Meg, nodding her approval as Crowley added some of the potion to the liquid that was starting to go through the machine. “I hope it isn’t affected by heat.”  
“Point.” Crowley frowned. “We’ll have to watch closely. If it doesn’t seem to be working we can always put it into a couple of beers and stuff the caps back on.”

It wasn’t long before Dean stumbled out of his room, wrapped in his dead guy robe, apparently drawn like a magnet to the scent of coffee wafting in his direction. Grabbing the largest mug Meg had ever seen, he pulled the carafe away from the machine and inserted the mug instead, uttering little whimpering sounds as he did so.

“Do you suppose there’ll be enough for Sam when he gets back?” Meg watched Dean attack the beverage as soon as it seemed full enough, draining the liquid without even blowing on it first.  
“Dunno,” offered Crowley. “But one thing’s for sure. Squirrel’s got cast iron tonsils.”

Footsteps on the stairs heralded the return of Sam, pink-faced and sweaty. Hearing him, Dean poured the remaining coffee into a much smaller mug and held it out for his brother but then began to sniff the air.

“What aftershave are you wearing?” he asked, frowning.

“I’m not. It’s just my manly musk,” smirked Sam, sipping from his mug. “I’ll go get a shower in a minute or two and be back to my sweet-smelling self.” He took another slurp from his mug and frowned. “Does your coffee taste weird?”

“Weird in what way? It tasted like coffee to me.” Dean peered into his empty cup. “No matter. I’ll make some more.” He reached for the filter basket and then went to dump the grounds.

“Good call.” Sam drained his cup and set it down. “I’ll go shower, and it’ll be ready by the time I get back.” He made to leave the kitchen, but as he passed Dean he stopped short and gazed at his brother. Meg, watching the two very closely, elbowed Crowley in the ribs.

“Ow! Bloody ‘ell!” he said. “You’ve honed those elb...”

“Shush. I think we’re off to the races.” 

As she spoke, Sam reached to take hold of Dean’s shoulders, pulling him in for a very tight hug, while he buried his face into Dean’s neck and sniffed, breathing in Dean’s scent and moaning quietly. 

The basket fell to the floor, filter, grounds, and all as Dean buried one hand in Sam’s hair and shoved the other one up inside Sam’s sweatshirt to run over the sweaty skin of Sam’s back. He was breathing rapidly, the sound of it harsh as he pulled Sam closer. The dead guy robe got lost under Sam’s rough hands, revealing first Dean’s pale shoulders and then, gradually, the long sweep of his back as it slithered down over freckled skin to drape over the arm that was pulling him tight against Sam’s body. It was almost as though their bodies were aware, fitting together as if designed for that sole purpose.

“Dean...” Sam’s voice was muffled, his face still buried in the space between neck and shoulder. “Dean, I want...”

“Shut up. I’m here.” For a second, Dean’s head was back, eyes closed and face ecstatic , but then he fought his hand free and seized Sam’s hair, pulling his head up so that he could kiss, deep, desperate mouths that found each other and clung, perfect.

Dean, naked by now, was the first to pull away as Sam marked his skin, teeth abrading the skin of Dean’s neck, his shoulder.

“Bed.” The finality in Dean’s voice made Sam shake, visible tremors as he fought with his sweats while attempting to keep hold of Dean.

Dean backed them both to the door, almost tripping as one leg of Sam’s sweatpants fell free. Sam nodded, finding Dean’s mouth again as they shuffled along, trying his best to keep their hips together.

Dean’s room was closer, and they made for it, getting sidetracked when Sam slammed him against the door so he could kiss along Dean’s throat. Dean fumbled desperately for the door handle, getting it open at last with a little sob, so the two of them could fall through and down onto the memory foam mattress (that may in fact now be remembering an entirely new side of Dean.)

Dean’s lips were puffy and pink, kiss-plumped and glistening. His cheek and neck were red, abraded by Sam’s rough chin. His cock was hard and fat, already drooling at the tip. Sam threw his sweatshirt over his shoulder to fall where it might and bent to taste his brother

“Yeah,” Dean breathed, looking briefly startled at hearing his own voice. He shifted and said again, “Yeah, Sammy, come on—”

“Watch me, Dean.” Sam licked up the length of Dean’s cock. “Look at me. Look at what I’m doing to you.” Dean’s eyes flew to Sam’s face, gazing into eyes drowning in need.

“We should’ve brought a camera,” murmured Meg, surveying the two writhing bodies.

“Gotta hand it to the old girl,” replied Crowley. “She really knows her way around a love potion. Just look at that!”

“Love potion?” Meg frowned. “They didn’t need a love potion. They’ve been in love their whole lives. All they needed was a little push.”

“And that’s certainly what they got.” Crowley gestured to where Dean was busy wrapping his legs around Sam’s waist while Sam prepared to drive his cock into him. “Holy shit! Will you look at that? I knew Moose was proportional, but that...” He shivered. “That’s just gilding the lily, that is!”

“Oh, yeah,” smirked Meg. “I heard about why you sold your soul. A couple of the imps were laughing about it.”

“I’m sure they were.” Crowley stiffened. “You don’t seem to understand, you pusillanimous little bint, you’re nothing. You’re less than nothing. I could snap my fingers and end you, right now.”

“Well, why don’t you then?” Meg’s chin went up and she glared defiantly at her erstwhile nemesis. “I’ll tell you why not, shall I?”

“Oh, yes. Do tell. I’m all ears.” Despite his bland words, Crowley’s face was an interesting shade of puce.

“I’m pretty sure that you’re lonely. You won’t kill me, because that would leave you alone, with nobody around who knows just who you are, and what you’ve been through.” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you’ve been up there. King of Hell just so long as the real deal didn’t come along, (which he did, eventually, of course!) but you’re lonely. You want someone who’s been around long enough and been through the same hell to understand you.”

Behind her, Sam was ploughing into Dean, their sweat-glistening bodies undulating as they single-mindedly pursued their completion, but neither demon turned to watch. Crowley had lifted his fingers to snap Meg out of existence several times during her speech, but somehow seemed reluctant to do so.

“And I’ll tell you another thing,” said Meg, knowing that she was pushing her luck, but smug in the knowledge that she was right. “You love those two big, sweaty, uncouth muscle-heads. You wish they were _your_ brothers, don’t you?” She stepped back quickly, but there was no need. Crowley remained quiet, sad. 

On the bed, it seemed that Dean at least had reached his climax and was panting, head flung back as he recovered, while Sam wasn’t far behind, hips shuddering as he drove into his brother’s body. 

“God, Dean, I love you.”

“Sammy, it’s always been you.”

When Crowley finally spoke, it was soft, almost, one might say, friendly, except of course that this was Crowley. “Come on. Let’s go find some breakfast. I’m starving.”  
Together, the two of them left the bunker, allies for at least a little while longer.

~ (0) ~


End file.
